Resurrection
by Rothalion
Summary: Post Devil's Cartel. Salem gets out of prison and tries to start over. Rating is for possible language. Since it is post D.C. I suppose it's A.U. All else will be canon, except my O.C. and I guess I'll use the Breath of Evil universe.
1. Chapter 1

_**Resurrection**_

Prologue

Crossings

It was hot. It was hot and that was a fact that Elliot Salem had grown to hate. Maybe it was not the heat he'd grown to despise but instead, the idea that he had no control over it. There had been no air conditioning in the Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 Altiplano, no way to control his environment and that, more so than the heat, was the single issue driving him slowly mad. His loss of control. Humans were one of if not the only creature capable of controlling their environment and the Mexican government had summarily stripped that control from Salem the day they dubbed him number 7687 and incarcerated him for what should have been a twenty year sentence.

Should have been, those were the three words Salem kept running over and over in his head for the last four days. After a life of ill fate and disappointments he'd finally, as Rios would say, 'caught some luck.' Rios would also probably say that only Salem could turn a prison riot and massacre into a lucky event. Rios, he shuddered and squeezed his sun weary eyes closed against the memories that always raced in to flood his mind when he thought about the big man. Maybe, he thought, as he sipped from the tepid bottle of water he'd been nursing for the last fifty miles, maybe this time if he truly, _truly _had a pure heart life might deal him a kinder hand and a second chance.

He tossed the empty bottle under the seat of the stolen old Chevy truck, took a deep breath then spit out of the truck window and coughed. Heat and dust both were a miserable bane to man. He clicked on the Chevy's left directional signal and slid into turning lane behind and old bus spewing black sooty exhaust. He coughed again, a bit harder and spit into the smog filled air. Just five more miles to the border, five more miles until he'd be home. His stomach hitched and he forced down the anxiety surging through him. He couldn't go back to the prison. He wouldn't go back. That much he'd decided as he stepped incredulously through the open door of his jail cell in the Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 "Altiplano", sixteen miles outside of the city of Toluca. This was his last run at freedom and in ten minutes he'd know if it worked. He tried to relax as the slow snake of cars and busses inched toward the border. Sure he thought fresh air and freedom, more like black smog and grid lock. Then, five more miles Elliot just five more miles.

Four long arduous days ago he'd walked out of his cell and fought a running battle to make it through the breached facility's gates before the Mexican officials could lock the prison down again. Against all odds he'd made it and after obtaining civilian clothes he stole the nondescript, gray Chevy truck and headed north east for Tampico where he had a safe house. Once there he cleaned up, sorted through his few remaining possessions, stashed once Bautista removed his leash and let him run free, and continued north toward the Brownsville Veterans Port of Entry.

Salem hadn't allowed himself to feel relieved that the safe house and his belongings were still in place after nearly three years of imprisonment. Sure he'd carefully or more importantly meticulously, planned for this event, his need to escape Mexico and repatriate himself as a new person, by stashing money, American dollars, a lot of it and creating a new identity. He had weapons and what few items Bautista had returned to him. His old mask and silver chain, his watch, and old belt buckle all of it seemed to belong to a man he no longer knew and sadly the reality was that within hours he'd once again lock that man away. He sat down on the sofa swirling the charred chain through his fingers and tried to still his trembling hands. Finding the safe house intact had actually frightened him more than it relieved him. It was a sign that his plans were effective and Salem had a long history of effective plans suddenly falling to pieces.

He'd showered, packed and triple checked his new passport, passport card, birth certificate, U.S. driver's license, and social security card. All the information matched and any expiration dates were still valid. They better be good, he thought, he'd paid dearly for them. Those he would need to cross the border so he stowed them in a small red satchel. Next he sorted through the documents for Elliot Nicholas Salem. Also obtained, or actually made, for a high price. These he hid in a secret space sewn inside the back pack bottom. It had a special lining to evaded x-ray machines and was virtually invisible to the human eye. Elliot Nicholas Salem was about to die and after a life of scraping and scratching to stay alive the idea of killing himself, albeit only on paper, galled him.

That was the day before yesterday, now if didn't asphyxiate and die, and all else went well, in ten minutes he'd walk across the border into his new life with nothing more than what he could fit in the large Kelty Redwing back pack. Turning to the left, annoyed at the tightness of the scared skin of his neck, he studied the pack while waiting for the traffic signal to change. It wasn't much to start a life with. His accounts for the new name would provide a marginal kick start, but since he'd not be able to work, it would not be enough. Besides that there was a small, very small chance that he might have more. Rios. Salem hoped beyond hope that the man, just as he'd always done during happier times, had stubbornly refused to give up on him despite what Alpha had said. If so he'd have money, plenty of money in his American accounts. It was really the only spot of hope he'd allowed himself.

Three blocks from the crossing he parked the old truck in a church lot, tossed the keys onto the floor board, took out his pack and headed for the check point losing himself in the throng of pedestrians also going that way. He got in line and finally, after a two hour excruciating wait in the sun he approached the booth and sighed. If his papers were, for whatever reason, refused he'd already made his peace and he would 'die by cop' as the saying goes. The family in front of him moved ahead and Salem proffered his identification. The clerk gave it a bored once over, looked up at him to ask a question, then seeing his scarred face cleared her throat nervously and waved him through. 'Jesus,' he thought, 'it worked, I'm on my way.'

With a shuddering sigh Salem hitched the back pack higher up onto his shoulders and winced when the straps pulled painfully at his scars. Home, or was it? Despite the dusty American soil beneath his booted feet he just couldn't force himself to accept the idea. The last seven, no ten years really, ever since Shanghai, had destroyed his capacity to embrace anything positive. For Salem the other foot always seemed to fall. He walked out of the shaded check point and into the hot Texas sun cursing, beneath his breath, when even the slightest rays once again seared his tortured flesh.


	2. Accountability of the Heart

ONE

Accountability of the Heart

Twenty minutes after crossing the border Salem settled into his seat on a north bound Greyhound bus headed for San Antonio 220 miles away. He'd purchased two seats, cash, so he'd have plenty of room. Once the bus set out he dug into the bottom of the pack and retrieved the stashed folio with his Salem identification. He unzipped it and fingered the paper work, all forms of I.D. and his bank numbers for the 1st. National Bank of Corinth. The set of documents had been his top priority once Bautisa had cut him loose. He hadn't carried I.D. on the raid all those years ago so as a precaution he'd had a new set created, as part of his blow out bag should he ever need to cross back into the states.

"Welcome back Elliot Nicholas Salem you little ass bitch." He said to himself reaching for the red satchel holding the new I.D. "Пока (paka), bye-bye Mr. Nicolai Constantine Barrett, we will meet again soon."

He switched out the papers and carefully secured the Barrett documents back in the pack's hidden pocket. He hoped that once he used his Salem documents to try and access his U.S. accounts he'd have time to go to ground before Rios got wind of it. He couldn't be certain, and he had no way to check but his gut and intimate knowledge of Rios told him that the big man kept his ear to the ground as far as Elliot was concerned. He would certainly hear about the prison riot, and Salem hoped that when he was not located in his cell that the Mexican authorities would simply include him in the list of un-identifiable bodies found in the charred rubble. That at least would save them from the embarrassment of actually losing him. Now he needed to try and sleep. He'd been on the run for four days with no real rest and he hoped his old habit of being able to crash in any moving vehicle had not been lost.

Six hours later he startled awake when the bus jolted to a stop. It was dark outside and the flashing red and blue lights illuminated the highway outside of the bus. For a moment he panicked. Then the source of the problem made itself known. Four old men, four old, very intoxicated men were screaming at one another in the back of the bus. Salem recalled that they group had argued over politics pretty much from the time they'd gotten on in Kingsville three hours ago. Two state troopers charged onto the vehicle and straight to the men. Salem pressed himself against the window and tried to keep his profile hidden. The officers dragged the men off the bus and within ten minutes they were once again under way. He sighed. It had been a mistake putting Nicholai away so soon. Had the officers been searching for escapees he'd have been in trouble or at best he'd have had to very quickly switch identification again.

"Salem, Salem, Salem, you have a lot to learn about this whole starting over game."

They arrived in San Antonio around 0900. Elliot found a taxi and directed the driver to take him to the largest branch of the 1st. National Bank of Corinth. The man informed him that it was down town and Elliot readied himself for the next big hurdle. Had Tyson closed out his accounts when he'd first been lost in the RPG explosion?

The taxi pulled along the curb outside of the ten story glass and granite building and Salem stared at it. Again if things went wrong he was committed to dying. He paid the cabby and slid from the vehicle.

"On second thought don't wait, man. No telling how long this might take."

"Ciao." The cabby, a fifty some odd year old, Italian said then flicked him a quick two fingered salute and slid back into traffic.

Salem hefted the Kelty onto his left shoulder and headed into the pristine lobby. He tried to ignore the stern look that the young security guard gave him. Salem couldn't blame the kid. He was lugging a back pack, he hadn't shaved in days, he had showered in Tampico but there'd been no soap and he was wearing faded, holey Levis and well battered boots. He didn't exactly present himself as the atypical 'downtown, main branch' sort of customer. His aviators and low riding cap probably did little to help his situation. Then on top of it, despite his long hair and the low cap, his scars were still visible; all in all he looked more than just a little bit rough.

"Cap and Glasses sir; please remove them."

Salem stopped short, turned and studied the young guard. He was ex-military, probably Air Force, probably scared shitless and most likely completely unable to fire the 9 mm Glock, strapped to his narrow hips, accurately under pressure. Soft was the term that came to Salem's mind as he assessed him, soft and completely untried.

"Sure." He said evenly, tucking the cap into his back pocket and the placing glasses on his neck, lenses rearward. "Air Force?"

The kid looked at him confused, obviously wondering how Salem had known that bit of information. "Yes sir. It's the rules sir, your hat and shades, sorry."

"I need to sit with a representative, where do I sign in?"

"Just ahead there sir, there's a podium."

"Thank you, and the rules, duty's duty, Decker, don't sweat it. Thank you for your service."

Salem wrote his name on the list, followed by the reason for his visit and the time. Elliot Nicholas Salem, he couldn't recall the last time he'd written it and writing it with his scarred hand only enhanced the dissociation he felt with his old self. It gave him the same sensation that he'd had upon hearing his own voice speaking something other than 'Si jefe'. You didn't tend to do very much talking in solitary confinement, screaming maybe but little talking. He took a seat and tried to fight down his anxiety. He had to check his accounts. He needed that money so walking out without checking was not a viable option.

There had been many times that he'd wanted to cross the border and check the accounts once he had the new identification but he'd held back. He'd held back because of anger. He wanted Rios to think he'd died. During the first years after the initial raid on Bautista's compound Salem had wanted Rios to suffer like he'd suffered and if the man was monitoring the accounts, which Salem was fairly certain he would do, by him checking and Rios finding out he would lose that advantage. Hate and anger are powerful motivators. For a price Bautista probably would have helped him empty his accounts into some offshore bank in the Caymans. The man possessed the knowledge and the means to do so but Salem's anger at being left behind quashed that undertaking. He'd just do without it. Bautista was paying him well, not as well as SSC or T.W.O. had but well enough to rebuild.

To calm his nerves he tried to treat the situation as a mission.

"Ok Salem just take up a sound, safe position, watch the entry and exits, watch the people moving in your sector, have an out and just keep it together. You aren't that green kid guarding the damn door, Elliot. You're tried and trained and you can get through this. Nobody is looking for you in San Antonio, Texas. You died in a terrible prison riot in Mexico. Good I feel better. Shit what if they did flag my accounts after the riot! No, the Mexican Federales would never admit I got away. I'm just another rotting corpse on that heap stacked up in front of the gate."

"Mr. Salem? Elliot?"

He snapped alert. She'd caught him off his guard; he wasn't used to listening for his name. 7687 yes but Elliot or Salem, it had been nearly three years since anyone had called him either Elliot or Salem. He blinked away the memory. Tyson's voice firm and concerned with that accent of authority that in the past, during the good days, would bring him around, shut down his temper and get him re-focused. The bank clerk was waiting, looking at him but he was stuck in the memory. The last woman he'd been near he'd killed.

"_I know you're a little fucked up …You know…No… Salem!"_

"Elliot?"

He stood up and shook off the memory. "Ma'am, sorry, I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry."

"No worries, Mr. Salem. May I call you Elliot?" She continued reaching out to shake his hand.

"Yes Ma'am."

"Great, well call me Rebecca."

He hesitated then reached out toward her. She looked at the scarring and grasped it gently. Not, Elliot felt out of disgust, but out of concern that she'd hurt him. He squeezed back slightly in return and withdrew it.

"Follow me this way and tell me how I can assist you today?"

They sat down in her little office and Salem sighed heavily. She was pretty and some part of him felt badly for getting her involved in his transaction. Her blond hair was cut in a very short style and he admired that she hadn't felt the need to wear an undue amount of makeup. Her smile was genuine and her perfume the sweetest thing he'd smelled in years.

"I need, I need to check on my accounts. I have been away for quite some time. I need to see if there is anything left." His heart began to hammer in his chest and he felt sweat trickling down his spine. Salem recognized the sensation. The anxiety attacks had plagued him ever since Shanghai. He knew he needed to buy himself a few moments to regroup, relax and find his voice again. "Is that coffee I smelled just outside your door? Can I possibly have a cup? I've been traveling for a while. I…"

"Of course Elliot, it was remiss of me not to offer. While I get it why don't you get your identification and account numbers out."

"Black's good, thanks."

Rebecca returned and handed him a large Styrofoam cup of what smelled like good Columbian coffee.

"Now then Elliot where do we begin?"

Rebecca took his information and entered it into her computer. Elliot sipped the coffee relishing in the rich flavor. The last he'd had was watered down and tasted as if it had been brewed in sulpher water. The food and drink in Altiplano had been by far the worst Salem had ever been forced to consume. He'd lost fifty pounds in the first month he was there and after three years still had not put the weight back on.

"Ok, here are the balances for both checking accounts, and both savings accounts. This is the number of your retirement account, and this is a list of savings bonds you own."

Salem took the proffered slip of paper and coughed lightly to cover his shock. Rebecca noted his surprise and said. "Is there a problem?"

"No, just I didn't expect the accounts to still be open and there is more here than I'd figured. Guess my old boss never took me off a the books."

"Well that is, I hope for you, a good thing."

"Yea, yes, so that all said how much of this can I take in cash? I'm starting all over. I need a car, house etcetera. Obviously I can only carry so much, but I'd like to withdraw a substantial amount."

"Well there are problems with this. There are limits. Your account will allow you to tale 50,000 in cash per day. That will need to be reported to the government. If you could give me a ball park figure I can help to figure out how best to do this."

"I figured on 350,000. That should buy me a house, car and get things rolling."

"Ok we can do this. 50,000 in cash and then…"

"Can I write a cashier's check to a friend? I have a friend who has a possible probable house for me."

"Certainly."

"Do the 50,000. Do cashier's checks for the remainder, 30,000 dollar increments; I'll write down the name."

"I don't need to warn you about transporting such a large amount of money."

"No ma'am, here's the name and give me at least two grand of that in manageable denominations please."

Twenty long, terrifying minutes later Rebecca returned with Salem's money and cashier's checks written out to River Mackinnlee Akarov in the total amount of 300,000 dollars. It was a risk but Salem was willing to take it. He'd just have to run a circuitous route to his final destination in Montana, stopping far from there to open an account for River then in turn clear it out and set up life as Nicolai. The remainder of his money would need to be drawn down bit by bit from Corinth branches scattered throughout the west and re-deposited in Nicolai's account via River's. That was of course if Rios didn't pin him down before then. He thanked Rebecca for her help and exited the bank. Next stop would be for Nicolai to purchase a vehicle and get as far away from San Antonio as quickly as possible.

Salem hailed a taxi and twenty minutes later he'd been dropped off at a large Ford dealership just outside of San Antonio. After a brief round of haggling over their acceptance to take cash he drove out in a blue 2013, F-250 four wheel drive crew cab for just over 16,000 dollars. A quick trip to the local tagging office provided a permanent license plate and he was on his way northbound on I-35 towards Dallas. He'd need to sleep so he planned a stop in Austin. It would serve no purpose to get as far as he had only to fall asleep driving and die in a fiery crash.

_Georgia T.W.O. Headquarters_

"Hey boss I…"

Tyson Rios held up his hand to stop and silence an excited Galen Secour before he got entirely into his office. He was on two separate phones and looking at a computer monitor as well. Secour listened to the conversation and immediately understood why Rios had halted him. The team in Turkey was getting ready to exfil after a successful op and Rios was just tying up loose ends. The op had been a scary one nearly falling apart before it had gotten started, after a recruit chopper pilot had completely pissed off the authorities in Greece, who gleefully impounded the machine. Between Rios and Cha Min Soo they'd resolved the issue and placated the authorities but it cost them a good sum of money and a day's worth of time. The guys were flying out today though and Rios had to be relieved. No injuries, no lost equipment and the objective safely recovered and enroute to the customer, that's what T.W.O., was all about and when it worked well Rios tended to be happy. Well Secour thought, as happy as the big man ever really got. Losing Salem for a second time had taken the wind from his sails and Galen doubted that Rios would ever truly recover. The two men had simply been too close.

Rios hung up the phones and looked up waving Secour in.

"What do you have M.I.T.?"

"A hit."

"Hit?"

"A fucking _hit_ boss. Elliot Nicholas Salem just withdrew 350,000 bucks from his accounts, in cashier's checks and cash from the branch in San Antonio Texas."

Rios just stared up at him. As soon as he was able, after losing him in the RPG attack, Rios had placed flags on Salem's accounts and it was Secour's duty to monitor them. Something in Rios just refused to give up on Elliot and he wanted to be sure he'd find him if the lost man ever resurfaced. To the dismay of Ernest Stockwell and Cha Min Soo he'd kept Elliot on the payroll and managed the lost man's finances making Salem a rather rich man. You could call it gut instinct, sheer stupidity or as Nala had told him love, but Rios just hadn't been able to declare Elliot dead. Of course he'd been right in a manner of speaking. Five years later Salem resurfaced as Diablo and in an effort to gain his revenge on Rios for allegedly abandoning him to the La Guadania cartel, decimated a team of T.W.O. operatives before being captured. That was three years ago now again he was apparently free.

"The body count in that riot is high M.I.T. even if he did survive it, even if he did…"

"He hit-his-accounts. You _know_ him. You know he had an out. You know he had a blow- out bag and a go bag stashed somewhere in case his little marriage with the fucker Bautista went south. He skipped out of that fucking riot and headed straight for the border Rios. He's out!"

Rios leaned back in his chair and studied the report. March sixteenth 1000 hours 350,000 dollars went missing from the account of Elliot Nicholas Salem. Rios didn't, couldn't dare hope that it had been taken by Elliot.

"I took the liberty of scrambling the team and fueling Talon T.W.O. You'll, we can be in San Antonio in four hours. We need to move Rios he won't hang around, well not if he's smart anyway and he is fucking smart."

"Maybe they tortured him for the account numbers and it wasn't him."

"Tyson, Salem could remember topographic shit with damn near photographic recall, but numbers, phone numbers no and you were his banker. Yea, they tortured him Rios but he didn't have that info to share. I'll see you in the go room in fifteen minutes. That's Giddy's' and the guys' ETA. It's been long enough, it's time to bring him home whether the sorry little fucker likes it or not."

"I know, I'll be there."

Secour left and Tyson picked up the phone.

"Tyannikov?"

"Da?"

"He tagged his account in San Antonio. The riot didn't get him. I'll be enroute in fifteen mikes in Talon T.W.O. ETA," he looked at his watch, "1930 our time. I'm sure he hit the bank and hauled ass but maybe we'll get lucky. Tyannikov?"

"Da, I will meet you at airport in San Antonio."

The line went dead and Rios, his heart and soul riddled with misgivings, headed for the go room.


	3. A Trackless Soul

Resurrection

TWO

A Trackless Soul

Salem settled into the lazy flow of traffic on I-35 and tried to keep from driving solely in his rear view mirror. The truck was, for all practical purposes, about as non-descript as one could hope for on I-35 north bound out of San Antonio. Every other third vehicle on the road seemed to be a large truck of some sort. Salem and Rios had always scoffed at the phenomenon. Why was it that even the tiniest housewife seemed to need some huge four wheel drive, crew cab turbo charged truck just to run the kids back and forth to school? Back then it pissed him off but right now he was happy for the company.

Austin was about eighty miles from San Antonio, he figured to hit town in just over an hour. Once there, he had a few more little chores to see to; then and only then would he be able to find a hotel, a good one, and rest. As he neared an exit about ten miles out of San Antonio he realized just how hungry he was. He left I-35 and pulled into the drive through of the first restaurant on the right. It was a McDonalds. Fifteen minutes later Salem pulled away with a large French fries, two Mac Doubles and a huge sweet tea. Twenty minutes after that he pulled to the side of the interstate, leapt from the truck and began vomiting violently. Apparently three years of eating nothing but thin, rank gruel had taken a toll on his stomach. Salem cursed himself for not having considered the result of such a large meal. Well not just a large meal but a large grease filled solid meal. He should have known better. This was not the first time he'd had to reorientate his stomach to good food. Disgusted and depressed over his lack of judgment he got back into the truck slid into traffic and continued northward.

Just outside Austin he pulled off an exit and followed the highway to a Best Buy store. He needed a couple of laptops and supplies to go with them. He'd never really been one to use a computer for recreation but Rios had insisted that he become very familiar with them. He also honed his skills while working for Bautista. One laptop would be set up for Salem and one for Nicolai. Where he was planning on going was far away from any real urban area and the laptop would be his means of communication. He also purchased four burner phones. He had several calls to make and the burners would cover his tracks. Once he finished with it he could dump the phone and start with a new one. He paid cash for all of the purchases, left the store $2345.00 dollars poorer and moved on.

Next stop the Austin Amtrak station. He'd been debating this part of his plan for several days. He wanted to send Rios on a wild goose chase. Rios, he wasn't even certain the man would even look for him. Part of him wanted Rios to find him and that worried Salem. That made him feel weak. He didn't need Rios. He didn't need anyone any more. They'd abandoned him three times really. If you thought about it they'd left him once in Shanghai, then in Mexico and then Mexico again. Rios could have taken him back, was supposed to take him back. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed away the bitter thoughts circling round his mind. A car horn sounded loudly and he snapped back. The light had changed and lost in thought he'd not noticed. He waved politely to the large Mercedes SUV behind him and pulled the big Ford out into traffic.

At the train station he got in line at the counter and waited his turn. It was loud in the large high ceilinged building. The constant cacophony of voices and messages over the public address system was grating on his frayed nerves. After three years cached away alone, in near darkness and isolation the world now seemed to be one continuous obnoxious roar. His heart began pounding and he cursed under his breath. He'd need to get to a doctor and maybe start taking the medicine for the anxiety again. Then no, he figured, once I get to where I'm headed the only sound will be the wind through the trees. That I can handle. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead daubing away the beads of sweat forming there, despite the air conditioning and inched forward in the line.

Ten minutes later when he stepped up to the counter he purchased a one way ticket from San Antonio to Chicago and from Chicago through to Portland Maine. He paid the white haired woman teller, named Philomena, with his new debit card, in Salem's name, that luckily the 1st. National Bank of Corinth could handover while he was there that morning. He found that little matter humorous in fact. He'd chosen that bank; against Rios' stern advice there interest rates were lower than at his bank, over twenty-two years ago solely because he could have his card right away. It was his first debit card and in his excitement he just had to have it right then and there. Rios' bank and the three they went to after it told him he'd have to wait for it to come in the mail. They'd served him well, or rather served Rios well. It fell on the big man's shoulders to try and keep Salem's accounts and savings in order. He'd done a good job of it too, as Salem discovered when he saw his balances.

He headed back to his truck with a one way ticket for a Superliner Roomette on the 22 Texas Eagle leaving San Antonio at 0700 the following morning, March seventeenth and arriving in Chicago at 1352 on the eighteenth. Along with it he had a Superliner Roomette room on the 50 Cardinal to Portland Maine, leaving Chicago at 1545 on the eighteenth and arriving in Maine at 1800 hours on the nineteenth. Total cost $1053.00. If Rios was monitoring his account the purchase would pop up and with any luck Rios would be enroute to Maine while he was heading northwest to Rexford Montana or somewhere very near there.

Once in the blue truck and after a quick trip in and out of a Target with clean clothes, shoes and some more personal items he made for the Hyatt Regency in down town Austin.

Just as he'd anticipated, checking in proved to be a headache. They did not take kindly to a grungy backpack toting man, in unkempt clothing trying to acquire an executive suite. He paid cash, $780.00 for one night and left a substantial deposit on Nicolai Barrett's Visa card. Fifteen minutes later he was in the room watching the bellman unload his bags and laptops from the luggage cart. He tipped the pleasant gentleman handsomely closed the door behind him and sighed. Finally, he could finally just wind down for at least one night. Hell maybe he'd risk two. Even if Rios tracked him to San Antonio he'd have a difficult time following him to Austin. The weakest link in his plan, thus far, was buying the damned truck from a dealer. If Rios was smart, once they discovered he wasn't in Maine he'd check to see if any cash transactions for vehicles had been made on that day in or around San Antonio. More pointedly he had mentioned to Rebecca, the bank representative, that he was buying a vehicle and Rios would most certainly question her. With those thoughts in mind he picked up the room phone, called the desk and reserved the large, one bedroom suite for a second night.

"Well Salem some things don't change; you're still pissing away your money on frivolities."

Salem went into the large bathroom and turned on the shower. Then returned to the room and opened the bags of new clothes. He'd not purchased very much; just two pairs of jeans, three black tee shirts, a large oversized red sweatshirt, a pack of six socks, under wear, a new black ball cap and a belt. He pulled the tags off the clothes and set them aside. Then he stripped out of the filthy stuff he was wearing and dropped them on the floor near the front door. The shower was ready and he went in.

This would be his first real shower in three years. In the prison they allowed him one per month and that was with very little water pressure and usually cold water. He'd simply resigned himself to smelling his own stink and after a while he barely noticed it. Besides if he wasn't stinking up his cell the terminally clogged toilet did.

He slid into the warm water and raised his face up under the flow. He'd have liked the water to be hotter but that would hurt the scarring on his face, neck and most of the right side of his chest and nearly to his hip. The scarring angered him on many levels. If Rios had only dragged him from beneath that damned truck and gotten him home, they could have flown straight to Mexico City and gotten him the emergency care he needed. But no the damned recruits panicked and left him to die, undoubtedly telling Rio he was dead. Hell maybe Rios thought he was dead, maybe he'd been too out of it to be able to function.

He coughed hard five or six times and tried to catch his breath. He'd been getting sick for a few weeks or more prior to the riot and it seemed that whatever it was hadn't gone away. Bronchitis or maybe Pneumonia, he'd suffered bouts of both several times in his life and it always knocked him out of commission. Salem squeezed a glob of the Hyatt's shampoo into his left palm and began to massage it into his filthy hair. It felt good. Too good and it had been far too long. For a quick moment he flashed back eight years, to Croatia; it was snowing hard and the water was luxuriously warm and it wasn't his fingers scrubbing his head but Vasily's and he smelled like Juniper and Cognac. The memory hit him hard and he stumbled back slightly. No, he thought, no never again it can't be so let it die. Just forget it, just forget all of them, this is your life now Nicolai. Some of the soap trickled into his left eye and the burning dragged him back from the recollection. If Tyson was off limits then Vasily Tyannikov most definitely was. He'd never allow the big Russian to see the horrible damage the fire had done to his body. He didn't have the strength to survive the rejection.

He again looked up into the flow of warm water and let it pour over his face and back across his hair flushing the soap, it smelled like Lavender, out of his hair and down the back of his neck. Then he reached up and scrubbed at it again making certain all of the sweet smelling suds were rinsed away.

Next he soaked the thick soft wash cloth, filled it with more of the Lavender body wash and began scrubbing himself bit by bit. Rios be damned, he thought. The big man had always bitched that Salem wasted water. It wasn't wasting. He just needed to feel clean. He needed to wash away whatever gruesome acts they'd perpetrated during a mission. If the big bastard had stopped and paid attention for just once in his life he'd have noticed that Salem only took the long showers after an op. A regular shower took him no longer than one of Rios'. At least long showers were something he and Vasily agreed upon.

He scrubbed carefully not wanting to miss even a millimeter of flesh. He wanted the stink of the prison, to be a long forgotten memory and if it took taking ten showers a day, for the next year and a half so be it he'd find a way to make that happen. Salem set the cloth aside and grabbed the long handled back scrubber he'd purchased and went to work on his back. It pained him a bit. There was significant scarring along his right rear rib cage and the coarse scrubber was just a bit too rough. Job completed he attacked his toes with the nail brush that was a part of the back scrubbing kit. He scrubbed meticulously in between each one, and made certain to get the bristles under the nails; he'd trim them after his shower, and finally the areas around his ankles. For a moment he studied the faded scarring from when the animal trap chewed into him in Sarajevo. The leg still bothered him from time to time.

He moved forward, rested his forehead on the cool, gray marble and tried to relax as the water beat down on the back of his head and neck. When he was through his neck would move with a bit more freedom for a short time. The scarring, partially Contracture scarring tightened and restricted his flexibility. Sometimes, if he managed to get the water temperature just right, the skin would become a bit suppler. He struggled with lifting his right arm fully above his head, shoulder height was the limit or the skin tore in his under arm. Also, and this made driving difficult, tilting his head to the left more than eight to ten degrees was nearly impossible as was turning fully around to check behind himself. He also could no longer fully extend his right arm at the elbow and had on three occasions actually torn the sensitive skin open. All, he knew, because Rios had left him behind. No, he reminded himself as he shut the faucets of and stepped from the shower stall, not Rios. Those two recruits, they were to blame, they'd been poisoning Rios' mind against him for months and this disgusting mess that the fire had rendered him into was the end result.

He grabbed one of the oversized, soft towels from the warmer and scrubbed it through his hair before dragging it over his body. It was a good cotton towel and it soaked up the water quite readily. He tossed it in the corner, took the second one from the rack, and padded back out into the main room of the suite while continuing to dab away the moisture. At the window he pulled the drapes back and stood naked looking out across at Lady Bird Lake. The outside world seemed huge to Salem. Frighteningly huge and he again forced a rush of unwanted anxiety away. It was now nearly 1500 hours and he truly couldn't decide what he wanted to do.

He turned from the large window and after tossing the towel onto the pile with its mate then wandered back into the sitting area.

There was a wet bar but he knew if he got started with that he'd crash completely. Three years of no alcohol, no food in his gut and whatever sickness he was getting all added up to, no alcohol; despite how desirable it might seem, it was not a good idea. Food, he should order food. He needed to eat but didn't feel hungry. He was familiar with that feeling and he knew the only way to deal with it was to re-introduce his body to regular food.

With that thought in mind he lifted the room service menu and studied it. He needed something nourishing but light and preferably chewable. The prison food had mostly consisted of stews and soups with little meat and the occasional pepper. He decided upon scrambled eggs, a Baguette, some slices of bacon well done, a serving of Custard and some tea. That was a start. In the meantime while waited he got dressed.

Salem slipped into his new cotton brief underwear and was quite pleased with them. He'd had none in three years; it's the simple things, he thought to himself, the simple things that keep you happy. He followed them with a pair of the new soft cotton socks after carefully trimming his toe nails, then he chose the black wrangler jeans, he'd have preferred Levis but Target didn't carry them, and finally the giant red sweat shirt. He dragged his fingers back through his hair and for the first time, since ending up in Bautista's claws, he felt human again.

By the time he'd opened and activated one of the four burner phones the room service fellow, Dylan, arrived with his food. He pushed the serving tray into the room and inquired if there was anything else Salem required. There was. The items had slipped his mind in Target. Salem needed some cough medicine. He knew that no matter how exhausted he was that once he lay down to go to sleep the coughing would start and he'd be up all night. Dylan promised to return promptly with the Robitussin Chest and Congestion liquid, and the 25 mg. Benadryl tablets Salem requested and after taking his second sizable tip he departed on his errand.

Salem sat down at the small dining table to eat reminding himself to go slowly. The food was excellent and Salem had to force himself not to wolf it down. Scrambled eggs and a roll might not sound like much but for Salem it was like a new lease on life. He passed on the tea. He hadn't considered the caffeine and instead took an orange juice from the room's small refrigerator.

To kill time while waiting for Dylan he opened one of the Hewlett- Packard laptops and began to set it up. When he finally got the screen up he was surprised that he needed to squint to read it. Wonderful, he thought morosely, now I need glasses too; which brought up yet another niggling issue. Medical insurance, he was going to need medical care once he got situated. He supposed he could pay cash but that could get expensive and it seemed a pity to waste away his hard earned money and then by a twist of fate die anyway. Oh well, he'd just get some for Nicolai and try and pay cash for what he could. What frightened him most was that all the damned hospitals and doctors were tied together on the computers. If Rios wanted to, despite all of the HIPPA laws, he could do a search of data bases for folks with Salem's issues and find him. Right about the time he managed to get the Hyatt's Wi-Fi on the laptop Dylan returned with his supplies. Salem thanked him, over tipped him again and said goodbye.

He set the laptop on the desk to charge and gagged down a dose and a half of the Robitussin which was Guaifenesin and a cough suppressant and four of the Benadryl tablets. That combination typically worked for him and he hoped it still did. He'd been coughing for a few weeks with no relief. The Mexicans had very little desire to keep him healthy on their Peso.

He opened the door hung the "Do Not Disturb" tag, stripped again and burrowed under the down comforter with extra pillows so his head was slightly elevated; that, he hoped, would help with the coughing until the Robitussin started to work.

His mind wandered while he waited for the Benadryl to kick in. He felt, despite the situation, safer than he'd felt in eight years. Even after Bautisa had made him his lieutenant he still hadn't been safe. Four times, spurned cartel members had tried to take him out and four times he'd defeated them. That aside, there was the ever present threat from Cicatriz, or Scar. The big man was the definition of depraved and he'd tortured Salem for weeks after the burns had healed and Bautista wanted information about T.W.O. Salem never broke and because of it the Cartel leader finally changed tact and tried to convince Salem that Rios had abandoned him. That, because of Salem's condition, worked and he signed on but never gave up T.W.O.

Now though, this was comfort. He relished in the big bed's warmth and found it funny that before Mexico he'd rarely slept in his bed. He always ended up asleep on the couch. But now he thought the first thing he'd buy is a bed and covers just like the Hyatt's and spend as much time as possible in it.

For a moment the joy flickered away though. Vasily skittered across his memory again and he shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders. One of the reasons he'd avoided his old bed was out a sense of shame. He hated to be in the expensive bed alone and rarely had a companion to fill it. In the end, for a few years before Mexico, Vasily had whenever he was stateside. Those and the times he spent in Croatia with the big Russian were magical for Salem. He'd final settled into some semblance of peace. There was no need to please, no need to worry about doing a thing incorrectly; he could just be himself and enjoy the company of someone who cared for, no loved him and just reciprocate that love and have it gratefully accepted with no conditions.

After Shanghai Vasily was there for him; solid and strong and willing to do whatever it took to bring him back health emotionally and physically. Whereas Rios just wanted to get back in the game. He was devastated by what had happened but it, for him, was over just move on. Keep your head down and keep moving Salem we'll be fine. For Salem though, to whom trust did not come easily, his world had been shattered. Vasily was all that was holding him together. He'd waited a lifetime to find the love the big man provided and now…

He was surprised to feel tears streaming down his cheeks and then moments later he was curled in a tight, trembling ball sobbing uncontrollably. It was eight years, no a lifetime's worth of sobbing all pouring forth at once. So many years of despair and the crushing weight of hate and the desire for revenge against someone he'd loved with all his heart. Who he'd hated to hate and knew that he'd lost. All raw and scathing emotions that Salem thought long dead now finally rushing from his fractured heart and soul. It was the emotional display proving that he'd realized, truly realized there would never again be Vasily, or Rios or Nala or anyone ever again. When he walked from that room and went north to Montana Elliot Nicholas Salem; Tyson's Ellie, his Kermit, his Green Giant, his Fifty; and Vasily's Barsukh, Little Badger or his Thistle his Chairtoboleek would die. Nala's Dragon One would die, sacrificed to save what few miserable bits and pieces of him that were left. Sacrifice, it had all begun in Shanghai with sacrifice. That had been for him the beginning of the end for him and if he hadn't believed it pre-Mexico, in the eight years after he'd grown to know it to be the truth. Sacrifice the one for the millions; the parts for the whole. He tried to stop it, the crying would make him cough but there was no stopping. It was a catharsis, a catharsis long overdue and sorrowfully needed.


	4. In the Service of Strangers

Resurrection

FOUR

In the Service of Strangers

At 1515, Sunday, March sixteenth, day one of Rios' hunt for Elliot the team touched down in San Antonio Texas at Stinson Municipal Airport, after going wheels up from Atlanta at 1100 hours. The just over four hour flight had been uneventful and during the flight the team, consisting of; Rios, Phil Guidry, Vince Heckler and Galen Secour, managed to do a pseudo Staff Study for the situation at hand while T.W.O. pilots Carter Newman with Cory Fulbright in the right hand seat of Talon T.W.O., made certain they were not all killed in a fireball of wreckage.

Twenty minutes after disembarking the big plane and offloading a black F-350 crew cab, four wheel drive truck fitted with a custom topper and two matching motorcycles, Ducati Diavel Darks, the group was downtown across from the 1st. National Bank of Corinth awaiting Vasily Tyannikov. The plan had been to rendezvous at the airport but Tyannikov was late and Rios thought that observing the bank made better sense than twiddling his thick thumbs at Stinson. Once Vasily showed they exchanged quick hellos, radio call signs and Rios dispatched Newman and Fulbright on the Ducatis to obtain intell from the local greyhound station, the Amtrak station and any private limo services. Salem had made it from the border at the Brownsville crossing to San Antonio somehow and Secour had intercepted a hit on Salem's account for Amtrak tickets. Their secondary objective was to acquire suitable accommodations should they need them. Vasily, meanwhile, ordered Seth and Ilya to surveil the street seeking similar intell from any taxis or local street vendors on the surrounding block that might have seen Salem. The remaining team of five entered the bank.

Twenty six year old Milton Decker had been working for 1st. National Bank of Corinth as a security guard slash greeter for just over two years. During the course of his tenure the greatest threat to the bank he'd encountered were stubborn homeless folks demanding to use the restrooms and having to ask that people remove their hats and sunglasses. As for the hat rule, for the most part, customers obliged the polite five foot seven inch tall, red head and only once had someone steadfastly refused.

That incident had been four months ago and the customer, an eighty-five year old, hunched back old man in a battered gray wool fedora, finally agreed after a ten minute standoff; during which he cursed at young Decker in at least three different languages and regaled the security guard with his resume of having fought in several foreign wars, which by virtue of his service, he'd argued, earned him the right to wear 'any god damned thing he wanted to.', into young Decker's bank. So when the T.W.O team stepped en-masse, shoulder to shoulder into the vestibule at 1545 March sixteenth Decker cursed his rapidly souring luck. He would, later that night, tell his girlfriend that the group had literally blocked out the late afternoon Texas sun.

The nervous guard stood a bit straighter and assessed the group as they marched confidently through the interior swinging doors as though they owned his branch of the 1st. National Bank of Corinth. He cringed; of the five men four wore hats and all wore dark glasses. 'Wonderful' he thought. 'my second near death experience of the day.' The group didn't acknowledge his position so he greeted them politely.

"Welcome to 1st. National Bank of Corinth, downtown San Antonio, how can I help you?"

The quintet turned as one and strode toward Decker's little podium, on which sat his listing of all the offices in the bank and their respective occupants. Decker, when not worrying over the potential hordes of homeless invaders, studied the ever changing roster diligently and took great pride in knowing, from memory, the location of ninety percent of the establishment's employees.

"Hats and glasses," he muttered, "Please remove them, gentlemen." Although in his gut he had the distinct impression none of the group was really capable of anything remotely gentle.

He startled a bit when instead of removing the black baseball type cap he wore, the smallest of the group, small being relative; the man was easily six two and weighed at least 280 pounds, snapped out an eight by ten color photo and held it just inches from his face. Decker blinked and drew back slightly, then tried to see where remaining two of the five man group were wandering off to.

"Seen him?"

Seenhim…for a moment, out of habit, Decker tried to place the name 'Seenhim'. Then he realized the question, it wasn't so much a question but more of an order to answer, was not the typical, 'Mr. Seenhim's office please' question. Milton regrouped a bit, looked at the photo while the language area of his brain began forming the stock reply of; 'I'm afraid our privacy regulations prohibit me from answering unless you have the appropriate legal…' his mouth, on the other hand, and seemingly with a mind of its own instead said,

"Yes sir, 9:15 this morning."

Before Decker could reign in his mortification at not following The 1st. National Bank of Corinth's protocol concerning customer privacy the biggest man, standing on the right end of the trio, spoke.

"Air Force, Decker? Senior Airman, 3P0X1?"

Decker blanched. 'Who were these guys?' First the back pack wearer had called him out and now this guy, right down to his rank and job description by MOS no less; 3P0X1, Air Force Security Forces. They obviously had been watching him and had him nailed.

"Yes sir."

The man, occupying the left end of the trio, rattled the photo at him and spoke again, still tersely as if he was giving Decker orders.

"What percentage of accuracy do you apply to your positive response to my query, and subsequent positive identification of the gentleman in this photograph, Airman Decker?"

"Airman?", Decker repeated, "No, not any longer. And you who are you guys?" Decker demanded having regained some of his composer. The group, reminding him that yes he had in fact been Senior Airman Milton Decker, bolstered his resolve. He recounted also that the Air Force had trained him, Senior Airman Decker, quite well; that he'd served four tours in Afghanistan and that had on several occasions been involved in fire fights. Therefore why was he allowing these men to bully him in his bank in his own damned country? Conversely he had to force down the urge to just follow their commands. "I'll need credentials. Are you DEA, FBI, CIA, Marshalls, I have protocol I have to follow I, we, the 1st. National Bank of Corinth …"

Milton broke off when the second largest of the group standing in the center, a dark haired man at least six foot four, 290 pounds touched the side of his neck and spoke in what Decker took to be Russian. He then looked at Milton sternly, removed his dark glasses and said.

"My companion has asked you question, Milton, answer him. Da?"

His accent was present but not overly thick. What unnerved Milton though was the deadness of the big man's steel gray eyes. He'd seen the look before on the cold hard men who'd spent far too much time across the fence.

The biggest man spoke again, somewhat friendlier than his companions, but still his voice broached no compromise.

"We are, Airman Decker, men who have a very vested, compassionate interest in finding the man in the picture. How sure are you, Airman Decker, that the man you observed at 0915 hours entering your area was this same said individual."

Decker couldn't see this man's eyes but something in his voice, the gentle quality he'd figured none of the group possessed rang out. Milton gave up. They were talking in their ear pieces, they were definitely legit _some_ _things_ so he caved. It wasn't actually a far stretch to assume that any of the agencies he'd mentioned was running a super-secret search. I-35 ran through San Antonio and Decker knew that kilos and kilos of drugs travelled it daily. What he more than likely had here was some sort of elite team investigating drug trafficking and the less he knew the better.

"100 percent, sir."

"Why?" Again from the rude, smallest man.

"Multiple reasons, sir…sirs. He does look very different now, older, tireder, burns and scarring, no smile. He carried a back pack and that worried me. Multiple tours in Afghanistan taught me about back packs. He had a hat, gray ball cap pretty beat up pulled down low and old scratched aviators on, torn filthy jeans too. His clothes were not the right size, all too big even his boots. I asked that he remove the cap and glasses, I was afraid he'd resist. He looked like trouble. You know just a bad seed. But he did so, removed them, without argument. I apologized. The scars were more visible and I felt that he'd been ashamed and trying to hide his appearance, but it's the rules. I…"

Before he could continue the four wearing caps all removed them, and the rest of the group their glasses as if they'd received an order to do so, though Decker hadn't heard it.

"and," Decker continued, "He said, 'Sure.' Took them right off, then said, 'Air Force, Senior Airman? Security right?' It caught me off guard that he knew I was Air Force. I directed him to the sign in podium just down the way there and he then said, 'Thank you, and the rules, duty's duty, Decker, don't sweat it. Thank you for your service, Airman.' Never in the years since I got out has anyone thanked me for my service, so it stuck with me. That and that he knew I was military like you guys did. It's just weird."

"Very good Milton." The largest man replied. He was bald and also bore deep scars along the right side of his somewhat Hispanic appearing face. "So he signed in, then what?"

" I kept an eye on him. Rebecca, one of our bankers, saw him. He was with her for nearly an hour and then he left. The pack seemed heavier, I had the feeling he'd taken a large cash with- drawl." Decker shrugged. "I felt for him. He seemed lost, sick maybe even, he coughed quite a bit while waiting for Rebecca. He hailed a cab and headed north on St. Mary's."

"You get a number on the cab, Decker?" The small man snapped while the big Russian again gave commands into his hidden microphone. "Think Milton!"

"Easy M.I.T." The biggest one cautioned softly.

"It was a yellow, probably Ruger's. He plies this block the most that time of the morning. I'm not sure but I'd start with him." He shrugged again and caught the big Russian saying 'Ruger' amidst the unintelligible flurry of Russian. "That and try and talk to Rebecca, sign in down there."

The trio walked away from Decker and the security guard watched the pair that had ambled around the lobby exit the bank. 'Poor Rebecca.' He thought and hoped that she had the wear with all to stand up to them.

At the podium Tyson flipped through the pages in hopes of seeing Salem's name on one of the earlier sheets but the bank had removed them. For a moment he considered what to write, then began printing in stiff block lettering.

Name: Tyson Rios / Purpose for Visit: 350,000 dollars cash, Rebecca / Time: 4:00 PM

He returned to where Vasily and Secour, with a laptop open on his knees, sat and settled into the posh leather sofa.

"There's two before us."

"What'd you write?"

"They'll figure it out Vasily. Secour, where do we stand as far as his privacy protection. I am his trustee, I do possess power of attorney so this should be a simple 'So who'd he write the checks to?' correct?"

"Assuming his intent is to simply take the C.C's and open a new account under a new name in order to have money and we get that name we can search for him. That's the simple scenario."

"He's not that stupid."

"Vasily I'm not implying that he is." Secour stated. "So that said if he's smart…"

"Why didn't he just clean his accounts out when he was with Bautista? Dump everything to a Cayman account…" Rios interjected.

"He wanted to stay dead Tyson, he wanted to hurt the ones who left him behind namely you."

"Galen…"

"I know, Tyannikov, now's not the time to rehash old wounds. To continue; my guess is he's got several . Fact: he has sufficiently good identification to walk out of here with 350 grand and we know T.W.O. policy strictly forbids the carrying of personal identification or family photos etcetera so he had that shit made. By the way boss you are keeping up that security detachment on your pretty little sis right, Rios? That little issue once again proves that Alpha and Bravo…"

"You are again rehashing, Secour!" Vasily snapped.

"Fuck you. Fact: He crossed the border. Karla just texted that our ever security conscious Mexican pals, in an effort to cover their asses, did in fact have an alert for him active from the moment they'd counted heads at the prison, therefore we know he has good enough I.D. to fool the border patrol; which may or may not, depending on the day, have been all that difficult. But I preface that fact with this; if he risked crossing in broad daylight he was pretty god damned sure his creds were good. Which we know he did because Newman also texted and has a positive I.D. on him getting on a Greyhound bus out of Brownsville and off a Greyhound bus here at 0900. He must have paid in cash, which I'm sure he'd been caching for a rainy day in the old cartel."

"You're not funny M.I.T."

"Not trying to be, boss."

"Then make your point and how does this relate to my privacy question? We went over this other stuff on Talon T.W.O.."

"Fifty had the funding, the resources and all the reasons in the world to have several very good sets of creds created, right down to credit and debit cards. Fuck we all have them right? My educated guess is that whatever name he gave here is a middle man so to speak. It gets him his money but then he's going to clean out that account and open one in the true name of his new persona so to speak, if not in several accounts. He will take, draw down his Salem accounts with the 1st. National Bank of Corinth little by little until they are empty and Fifty will no longer exists. So even if they would tell you, Tyson, I really don't think the info he gave The 1st. National Bank of Corinth will lead us to him."

"They've taken the two ahead of us and here comes another bank rep." Vasily whispered.

The trio then watched, as the man read the roster, looked their way, set it down and retreated. A few minutes later a nice looking young woman with long svelte legs, topped by a mid-thigh length, starched, plaid, pleated skirt, sporting a dirty blonde, neatly coiffed, hair style walked over. As she addressed them, Rios, despite the gravity of the situation, wondered if Salem had noted how pretty she was. He'd always been drawn to powerful women who sold, if sold was the appropriate term, themselves as regular. He'd lost out on all of those serious encounters and Tyson knew that, although Elliot would die before admitting it, the experiences had deeply hurt him as well as and undermining the trust Elliot sought so feverishly from the relationships. Now here was Rebecca and as far as beauty was related, the woman was quite regular.

This woman, though, held herself well. She knew her position, knew she was a powerful, albeit a minion, of the 1st. National Bank of Corinth and knew she controlled the current situation. Rios chuckled lightly as he stood and extended his hand. It threw her slightly off guard.

"Mr. Rios? May I call you Tyson?"

"No, ma'am."

She read his demeanor and despite being put off her guard continued unfazed.

"Rebecca Javier; you may, despite your need for formality, call me Rebecca. So how can I help you gentlemen this evening?"

Tyson, surprised by her temerity, balked briefly then pressed his point. 'Evening', he thought; was she intimating that her time to deal with them was short lived? He locked eyes with her and continued.

"At 1000 hours, CST a gentleman withdrew 350…"

"Please, gentlemen, follow me."

The trio did despite feeling as if they were not truly in control of the situation. A situation, being out of control, that was something they were very unfamiliar with.

Once in Rebecca's little office Secour produced, once again with a great flourish, the eight by ten photograph of a smiling Salem, a photograph portraying the antithesis of what the man had become, and pushed it across Rebecca's overly neat desk. She studied it and pushed it back with long slim fingers, crowned with pale tangerine hued, impeccably well done French manicured nails.

"Let me preface our discussion by warning you that I am bound by the 1st. National Bank of Corinth's very strict rules governing customer privacy and that, being said, unless you are from any one of the many branches of law enforcement which, after having dealt with all of them in every odd aspect of their guises, I do not believe that you are and therefore probably do not possess the appropriate documentation those agencies would indeed possess, there is very little that I will be able to disclose to you."

Vasily sat up and leaned in toward her desk before speaking in very structured English.

"This gentleman, Ms. Javier" he nodded to his right at Rios, "is Tyson Rios. That gentleman," He pointed, twisted and pushed the photograph back to her side of the cherry wood desk, "is Elliot Nicholas Salem. He has been missing, in what we believe to have been a state of Dissociative Fugue for several years. He is ill and emotionally and mentally compromised and therefore in grave danger. We monitor, because Mr. Rios is Mr. Salem's financial trustee and holds exclusive power of attorney over Elliot's monetary concerns, his accounts so to speak and this morning at 1000 hours CST, 1100 hours EST and approximately eight years and six days after his last transaction prior to disappearing, we noted the with-drawl from Elliot's account, account number; 8767-9987-3210-5 in the amount of $350,000 in a combination to include $50,000 in cash and $300,000 dollars in cashier's checks. What we need…"

"And you are?"

"Dr. Vasily Tyannikov. Elliot's Behavioral Therapist and physician."

"You have proof?"

Vasily proffered credentials which, to both Rios' and Secour's amazement, identified the Russian as able to practice Psychology and General Medicine up to and including General Surgery in the American states of Florida, Georgia, Vermont and the countries of Croatia, Serbia and Turkey plus three countries in Africa and most all of South America to name a few.

"I see. Doctors without Borders a wonderful organization but…"

"Was he here?" Rios cut in. "Who'd he write the C.C's to? Who…"

"C.C's?"

"Cashier's checks to Rebecca. I have a right to know! Secour raise base and have them send out Gatither, our lawyer and a heavy hitter maybe Bjorn."

Secour tapped at his earpiece and spoke quietly which caught Rebecca's attention.

Luther Gaither, was a merc, warily employed by T.W.O., that had been stripped of all semblance of humanity. Gaither and Bjorn were willing participate in anything dirty, the lawyer was ex-military and could run circles round any beauacracy anywhere in the world.

"ETA four hours boss they'll get it out of her and base is finding her address as we speak."

"Fine, I get it. Let me check your identification Mr. Rios. One moment please."

She clicked around on her keyboard while Tyson dug out his wallet then she finally looked up.

"Yes, I see that Tyson Rios is in fact Elliot's trustee and holds P.A. Your I.D. please."

She studied it, returned it and sat back somewhat smugly in her leather chair.

"You have obviously been monitoring his accounts for years and I have absolutely no reason to believe you have mismanaged them Mr. Rios but…"

"Then please, since we are in agreement that I control Elliot's accounts, tell us, Ms. Javier, to whom did Elliot write the cashier's checks? Right now that is our sole source of intell for tracking him."

"Tracking, what an ugly word. The connotations are less than innocent Mr. Rios. That said, despite his obvious trust in you, on February seventh, 2007 Mr. Salem, Elliot, added a clause to his standing power of attorney. Here," she turned the monitor so that the men could see the screen and then elucidated on the item. "In paragraph three, sub paragraph two, item c. 'I, Elliot Nicholas Salem, retain the right, to at any time, due to my own discretion, perform transactions here to for labeled as 'For My Eyes Only.' Thence barring my designated trustee, Tyson Rios from obtaining any information about said transactions.' When Elliot made his transaction this morning he invoked that clause so I am afraid I cannot, despite your status, give you that information."

"Tyson freeze his god damned assets make him come to us." Secour spat out obviously frustrated.

"I can't. That's, when he changed the terms, that's when he bought the house in Oia. I teased him. He tried to ask me about Oia and I burned him. That's also how he kept it a secret until he fixed it up. Also I can't freeze them. I can't summarily cut him off even if I could. We wrote that in, in the beginning. Without a death cert I don't have that authority. So we're through here. He'll slip away. Ok, one last request Rebecca." Tyson said softly while reaching into his jacket pocket.

She huffed again but sat back up when Rios slid a picture across her desk and stood laboriously up, tears streaming down his scarred cheeks. "That's us ma'am. That's me breathing for him, that's me covered in his blood on a cold lonely mountain in Turkey. He died twice that night. I gave him my blood and my breath to keep him alive. He'd been shot twice; left hip and right upper chest, we were tasked with the impossible job of extracting hostages from a brutal warlord. We'd been ordered to retreat but Elliot; he doesn't take orders well, refused and went back in for the last two women. All I want to do, Rebecca, is bring him home just like he wanted to do for those two hostages. All I want to do is hold him in my fucking arms again and tell him how much I've missed and need him and how sorry I am that I let him down and in eight years this, your desk, is as close as I've come. You keep that picture Captain Javier and look at it whenever you feel that rules were never made to be broken. Thank you, Captain, for your service."

As Rios turned to go Vasily stunned him by blocking his path, drawing him into his arms in a firm embrace and dragging his face in the left crook of his massive neck. In all the years they'd known each other they'd shared only a spattering of reluctant handshakes. The embrace only served to increase Rios' tears of anguish. Vasily finally turned him away from Rebecca and after a long hard look at the very shocked woman motioned for Secour to follow and herded the big man from the small office with Secour in tow.

Just as they neared Decker's position and the exit Rebecca called out to the trio.

"Mr. Rios, Mr. Rios you forgot your deposit slip sir, here."

Rios stopped and turned and the slight banker held out her trembling hand with a slip of folded bank stationary clutched in her fist.

"Good luck Sergeant Rios and thank you for your service."

Tyson pulled up to attention and saluted the slight banker. Then, after she returned it, retreated and left the bank.

Once in their truck Rios, in the passenger seat, opened the note and read it aloud.

Tyson,

"He is sick. He is in trouble. He had desperately sad, lonely eyes. Said he was starting over. Good luck and love him well. Thank you, once again, and River for your service.

River Mackinnlee Akarov.


End file.
